


Dancing

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dreaming, Ficlet, Implied/Referenced Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24441799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: Grantaire dreams he's dancing.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of pre-Barricade Day sadness, since who knows where my inspiration will be in a week's time!
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Grantaire dreams he’s dancing.  
  
 ****

_The light in the Musain was brighter than it has been of late, the candles flickering cheerily amidst the crowded room. The roar of voices washed over Grantaire, but he heard none of it, leaning forward so that he could speak directly into the ear of the pretty grisette seated next to him. “And what of you?” Grantaire asked, too loud to be the flirting murmur he clearly intended, as much to be heard over the din of the room as it was because of the wine on his breath. “What do you do to please yourself?”_

_The grisette giggled, her cheeks coloring. “To please myself?” she asked coyly. “Surely I don’t know what you mean.”_

_Grantaire grinned. “For once, I was not making a euphemism,” he said, lifting the grisette’s hand from the table to press a kiss to her knuckles. “I truly want to know how you entertain yourself.”_

_“There are fewer opportunities for a woman to please herself than a man,” the grisette told him with a smile of her own.”But I do love to dance.”_

_Brightening, Grantaire stood, graciously helping the girl to her feet. “Then if it pleases you,” he said, sweeping into an elegant bow that still somehow managed to be filled with jest, “may I in turn have the pleasure of a dance?”_

_The grisette laughed and Grantaire took it as permission, pulling her close to launch into a waltz. “Why, monsieur,” she cried, still laughing breathlessly, “you surprise me!”_

_Someone let out a shout from the corner of the room and began a drunken chorus of one of the the bawdy songs common in the cafés late at night, but Grantaire heard none of it, moving to the rhythm of a song that only he could hear.  
  
_

There is a rumble in the streets outside, the sound of cannons being brought to the ready position, the shout of soldiers falling into formation, but Grantaire knows none of it, his breath heavy and even.

And Grantaire dreams he’s dancing.  
  


_It was Courfeyrac who had convinced Grantaire to join the merry band setting out to the ball at Sceaux. Grantaire was more sober than he would otherwise wish, especially with the way Courfeyrac’s friend yearned._

_As if he was alone in pining._

_But where Marius, upon arriving at the ball, could not find joy in any of the young women there, caring only for his beloved, Grantaire knew he could find happiness, however fleeting, with any of the ladies who might give him a second glance._

_And all the better if they were blonde._

_When Grantaire spotted her, a blonde woman with sparkling blue eyes and a pink dress that flashed almost scarlet in the candlelight, he knew he would indeed find happiness that night. “May I have this dance?” Grantaire asked, when he had made his way to her side._

_She laughed, but rather than duck her head, she met Grantaire’s gaze boldly. “You may,” she said simply, taking his hand and pulling him to the dance floor._

_And there, with a pretty blonde in his arms, Grantaire again found himself, as much as any lost person might be found.  
  
_

The sun has risen over the roofs that lined the Parisian street, the light glinting from the bayonets of the National Guardsmen as their blades find their quarry just as the cries of the men, dying for an ideal in which Grantaire has never truly believed, echo between the buildings.

And Grantaire dreams he’s dancing.  
  


_“Do you care to dance?”_

_If there are ever five finer words spoken by human tongue, Grantaire knows he will never hear them, staring up at Enjolras, whose hand is outstretched toward him. “Beg pardon?” Grantaire manages, two words ill-fitting the magical five Enjolras has uttered._

_But Enjolras is not deterred by Grantaire’s confusion. “Do you care to dance?” he repeats, his hand unwavering where it remains held out for Grantaire to take. “With me, I should add, before whatever clever quip you might give to deflect an actual answer.”_

_Grantaire barks a startled laugh, staring up at Enjolras as if he has never quite seen him before. “But...why?” he asks, even as he is already reaching for Enjolras’s hand, his fingers already pressing into the soft flesh as Enjolras pulls him to his feet and tugs him close._

_Enjolras shrugs. “Why not?” he replies, an answer that is not an answer. “I wish to dance, and you are a suitable partner. Is there any other reason needed?”_

_Grantaire sighs as Enjolras draws him closer still. “Say it again,” he whispers into Enjolras’s ear._

_For a moment, Enjolras looks confused, but then his brow softens. “You are a suitable partner,” he replies._

_“No kinder words could I have ever dreamed you to speak,” Grantaire sighs, and Enjolras laughs lightly._

_“Have I been so cruel to give no kinder word than that?”_

_Grantaire shakes his head. “It is not a matter of cruelty,” he muses. “Though certainly, were you willing to spare a kinder word, I await with ready ear.”_

_Enjolras smiles and ducks his head so that his lips move lightly against Grantaire’s ear. “Wake,” he whispers._

_“What?” Grantaire asks, his grip on Enjolras tightening._

_“Wake,” Enjolras repeats. “Grantaire—”_   
  


The cries outside are fewer now, as the men draw their last breaths. The soldiers still shout, driving the last survivors of the barricade toward what structure remains that might provide some semblance of shelter.

There are few left, so few, compared to all who spent their last night on the barricade, who dreamed of a revolution whose time had not yet come, and whose dream had bled out by cannon and musket fire against the stones of the street.

But Grantaire dreams he’s dancing.


End file.
